


The Truth Lies at the Bottom of the Well

by inkrush81



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Crying, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Minor Character Death, Poorly written handjobs, Sandwiches, Suicidal Thoughts, endless moral dilemmas, tons of blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-15
Packaged: 2018-04-20 21:32:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4802933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkrush81/pseuds/inkrush81
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce was at an impasse. He could no longer be Batman having broken his rule but what was his life without the cape?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Truth Lies at the Bottom of the Well

It had been five days since he was last Batman. Five days since Alfred was murdered. Five days since he hunted down the men responsible and killed them. 

Finding them hadn’t been hard. The decision to kill them when he got there had been even easier, despite his initial intentions of taking them to the police. He had found each of them in their homes and had killed them with his gauntlet covered hands. He had done it as Batman. How could he?

Batman was supposed to be more than a man. A symbol. Incorruptible.

But Bruce had given into his emotions, let them rule him. He hadn’t killed for his parents, not for Rachel, not for Dent, or any of the others, but it was the loss of Alfred that had clouded his judgement to the point where he’d lost control. 

He spent the next day simply staring at the suit in his dockland warehouse. How could he ever wear it again after what he had done? How could he be that symbol? Gotham already thought he was a murderer and a cop-killer for Dent’s crimes. Bruce could take a little public criticism when it hadn’t been true. But now? If he was above the one rule that he had set for himself then how was he any better then those that he sought to persecute? Bruce didn't have an answer. 

The thing was he really couldn’t bring himself to regret killing them. 

They’d found Alfred dead in a parking structure. He’d gone out for some eggs. Bruce remembered the whimsy he felt asking for some French toast that morning. He remembered Alfred’s smile and the “right away sir.” But as it turned out, they didn’t have any eggs in at the manor. Alfred had assured him he’d get some for tomorrow’s breakfast and had made them some pancakes instead. They’d gone their separate ways after that; Bruce to tinker in the cave and Alfred into the city for groceries. 

Alfred hadn’t come back for the rest of the afternoon. Bruce didn’t think anything of it; the man was pragmatic and likely had other errands to take care of in the city on the same trip. His absence wasn’t concerning till it was after dusk and Alfred still hadn’t come home. Bruce called the butler, but it went straight to voicemail. He then tried to turn on the phone’s GPS to no avail. 

That was cause for alarm. It was not like Alfred to disappear without word. Even less like him to be completely unreachable. Something must have happened. Bruce didn’t even know if someone had taken him or worse. Even if the Batman were to have gone out right then, searching for Alfred, Bruce was certain that he could not find him alone. The city was too vast and without any leeds on perps, he wouldn’t get anywhere. Bruce wasted no time contacting the police. Over the phone, he filed the report, thankful that the state didn’t require concerned parties to wait twenty-four hours before notifying the authorities, just to see if the missing person would return on their own. Bruce had hoped he was simply blowing things out of proportion.

It was only after he suited up and was about to climb into the Tumbler, that he remembered they had installed tracking devices in all the cars for purposes just like these. Bruce remembered trying to slip into Batman’s detached calculation as he waited for the tracker to pull the car’s location, but only getting more and more anxious as he watched the pinwheel telling him to wait. When the search finally brought up the results, it showed the car had been parked in a structure downtown for a couple hours, before it was driven to a junk lot on the other side of Gotham’s Stevensburg neighborhood. It hadn’t been moved since. 

Bruce’s gut reaction was to go to the junk yard, scour the place for their records, find who dropped the car, and get to where ever they were holding Alfred, hopefully for ransom, before they hurt him more than they likely already had. 

However, all his years behind the mask told Bruce that he needed to go to the parking structure first. He told himself it was because the thieves might have left some clues. But really it was Gotham’s statistics about car-jacking and how often the crime turned to murder. He hoped it would be empty. That would give Alfred a chance of being alive. He shoved aside his fear of what he would find, praying that Alfred was one of the lucky few.

Batman had searched the place starting on the top level, floors seven, six and five all perfectly deserted. The moment he set foot on floor four though, he knew something was off. It was empty like the others and so afforded him a clear view of the expanse of floor; essentially highlighting a black crumpled lump lying on the ground on the other side of the garage. Bruce had broken into a flat out run, noting as he got closer a pressed pant leg of the suit Alfred had been wearing at breakfast and the fact that his body was nearly engulfed in a pool of blood. 

Bruce had fallen to his knees just on the edge of it, knowing with absolute clarity that there was nothing he could have done to save him. Alfred had been dead long before Bruce had even began to wonder if something was wrong. Whoever jumped him, had left Alfred’s face a bloody pulp, unrecognizable. One of his eyes was swollen shut and there were several teeth on the pavement, half submerged in the red liquid. Somehow that was worse than the large cut across his stomach, which allowed a number of his internal organs to spill out. The cause of death was obvious: he’d bled out. Even if someone had found him in time, Bruce reckoned with the amount of blood on the concrete the knife must have severed a major artery. Even _if_ someone had found him while he was still alive, there wouldn’t have been much the paramedics could have done. Bruce had prayed that Alfred had at least been able to bleed out in peace, because it was clear that there was nothing quick or painless about it. 

Bruce remembered after that moment going cold in a way like he never had before. The memories of the rest of the night plagued him in snatches and fragments. He knew he went directly to the junk yard and found the name of one of the men who hocked the car. From there, he tracked the killer to his current residence by Batman’s most persuasive means. The man was a part of one of the new gangs that had cropped up in the Southern part of the city. It hadn’t taken Batman long to get the names of the others once he started and he didn’t stop till they were all dead. 

Late the next morning, the GCPD called him to ask after Alfred’s dentist so they could pull his records. On a rational level, Bruce had expected the call, there was no way they’d be able to identify his friend’s face after the beating he’d taken, but it was still a shock. The police would have to check all unidentified bodies that fit most of the physical descriptors Bruce had put in the missing person report, especially ones who’s face had been destroyed, in case they were Alfred. (We know this sounds bad, they informed him, but we can’t confirm it’s him.) It didn’t matter. Bruce knew they’d found Alfred. Numbly, he gave them the name of the doctor.

The next time they called, Bruce let it ring to voicemail. He knew what they wanted to say; they had identified the body. They offered their deepest condolences but it was Mr. Pennyworth. They asked him what Alfred had wanted done with his body and if Bruce could come in soon to claim him. 

When Bruce finally went the day after, they tell him that though they know it won’t make up for his loss, forensics had found DNA under Alfred’s nails. He had fought back and they were already moving to arrest the men responsible. Bruce had to actively stifle a laugh, it came out as a sob anyway. He’d taken Alfred’s ashes back to the warehouse, unable to return to the manner. He couldn’t imagine the house, even rebuilt as it was, without the butler haunting its halls. 

Bruce was at an impasse. He could no longer be Batman having broken his rule but what was his life without the cape. Despite hours of pouring it over in his head, he still did not have an answer. He couldn’t see a way out. Bruce didn’t want to but there didn’t seem to be another way. Except Bruce was not made for sitting around overthinking things and by mid afternoon the next day, he’d had enough. 

Bruce went out with no plan in mind but to stretch his legs and wander aimlessly. If a different answer didn’t come to him, then at least he’d spent his last night in the city he’d sworn to protect. He walked East, out of the docklands through downtown. He hadn’t been out alone in the city as himself in ages. It had always been as the Bat or the carefully cultivated image he maintained as the playboy surrounded by beautiful dates. Moving as silently as he would when Batman, Bruce walked through Harlow and further along the canal passed bridges that led to the Narrows. The familiar skyline of the worst reputed neighborhood in Gotham pulled him to a stop. What would the good people who lived here do if he hung up his cape? It was practically every night he went out that Batman saved someone in the Narrows, he shuddered to think of those people’s lives if he’d never been there. 

He turned about to start walking again and get some feeling back in his legs, when his eyes slid from the skyline down across one of the bridges that connected the two parts of the city and fell on a somehow familiar figure. 

Bruce watched them trudge all hunched shoulders as they turned and continued along the road he had been taking. It was bitterly cold out and that man, because Bruce was sure it was a man, probably was just trying to shield himself from the cold. But his gut told him that wasn’t the case.

Bruce hadn’t thought of Joker since the afternoon Alfred had been murdered. The man had escaped Arkham the week prior and had yet to utilize his freedom to its full extent. Bruce had wondered idly what scheme he was concocting to draw out the Bat this time. Remembering him now, Bruce found it odd that Joker hadn’t tried something yet. It made him even more suspicious. 

Even when the man passed under a streetlamp and his hair was revealed to be a honey blonde, Bruce continued his silent pursuit. If this was the man Bruce was thinking, he must not have bought more of that cheap green hair dye he was so fond of yet. 

He followed the man further East to an older part of town where the streets were crooked and not even wide enough for two cars to pass side by side. He found himself watching the man’s movements closely, attempting to compare them back to all the other times he had watched Joker. Of course that was easier said than done, as Batman had always been more interested in making sure the man wasn’t going to do something drastic, rather than recording his manners for later reference. In his defense, he had never expected to randomly need to follow a man who could quite possibly be Joker. 

The man turned off a street that had a couple shops and nearly all of its street lamps intact, down a considerably darker one. He was passing the rows of houses like he walked it often and it was no surprise when he stepped up to a tenement building and went inside. 

Bruce slipped in before the front door closed, but the man was already up a flight of stairs to have heard anyway. The stairwell was dank and dark. Wasn’t this terribly cliche if he were to find Joker living in a derelict flat in a run down part of the city? Bruce followed the other man as he continued to climb to the third floor and didn’t even fumble with a set of keys before slipping inside. The audible clicks of several locks falling into place could be heard even from the second floor landing. 

Bruce frowned. There had to be a way for him to get the man to open up the door so he could see his face that wasn’t kicking down the door or shimmying up the fire escape. He wasn’t Batman tonight. Bruce considered briefly before deciding on a course of action. He did not even think twice as he rushed quietly back down the stairs and back to the more populated street they’d came up. He had seen this sandwich place that was still open. Who didn’t like food delivered straight to their door? It was the perfect cover.

Bruce was so eager to get back to the derelict apartment, that he hardly paid attention to what he ordered and was certain he over paid, but he was concerned its inhabitant might decide not to call it an early night after all. It couldn’t have been more than ten minutes before he was back up the three flights of stairs, standing in front of what was quite possibly Joker’s door. Bruce took a breath and rapped smartly on the wood.

“Order for apartment three o’six!” he called out in an affected voice. There was a startled thump from behind the walls and Bruce waited. He had placed the paper bag in front of the peephole, effectively blocking anyone inside from seeing him. 

Bruce knocked again, starting to get agitated. He’d gone to the trouble for a disguise. He wasn’t going knocking down doors like Batman would tonight. He knocked a third time. Behind the door, there was some stomping and the sound of locks being thrown back. It opened wide and the first thing Bruce saw was a shinning glint from the scant light in the room beyond as a knife was thrust towards his face. But Bruce had expected Joker’s weapon of choice and parried the stab, countering by drawing his gun to the blonde’s temple. 

Joker froze. 

Because this man was Joker; getting a clear look head on, there was no mistaking him now. Though he had no grease paint covering his features, the scars were there; the same puckered lines of flesh in deep snarled pink. And under his eyes were huge bags mirroring what he would do with black soot. Those eyes’ natural color was more pronounced, a vibrant emerald green that sparked with a sharp intelligence and cruelty. 

Without the make-up Joker looked different to Batman, but Bruce was able to recognize the clown anywhere after the hours he’d spent watching and then re-watching the secure footage of Joker on the day he was tried in court for his crimes against the city; looking for clues as to what made the man tick, if he was even a man at all. 

It was him.

Bruce pushed the gun against Joker’s temple until the clown got the message and slowly backed into the flat. He still had his knife, but with a gun at this distance Bruce wasn’t too worried. Joker’s shock had been mutely covered by a considerably bland expression. It was disconcerting to see the clown without his make up. Somehow he seemed less expressive, but that was probably something to do with the gun aimed point blank at his head. Neither did he seem as surprised as Bruce would be if their places were reversed.

Inside the place was dingy, not that Bruce wasn’t expecting wherever Joker was resting his head not to be a crap hole. The well worn wood floors could have done with more than one sweep and shine. The place was clearly a one room that was small enough the ancient bed took up most of the space. It was placed to the right in the center of the only wall with windows and past that was a small kitchenette. There was a cluttered desk to the left along with a sizable stockpile of munitions. There were two other doors, probably a closet and bathroom. The whole place was only lit by one light next to the bed. It was pretty scant and Joker looked even more sallow in the full bask of the unshaded bulb. 

Bruce shut the door behind himself and dropped the bag, following the clown close into the middle of the space; the gun still at point blank range. The silence seemed to drag between them. Before Bruce could even think of something to say, Joker’s arm struck out with a quickness that Bruce didn’t anticipate, and wasn’t that always how Joker got an upper hand in their fights? But instead of attacking Bruce, he merely knocked off the baseball cap that was supposed to be obscuring Bruce’s identity.

Bruce brought the butt of the gun down on the side of Joker’s head in response. The clown had such a poor sense of self-preservation, he was worse than Bruce. He moved in, directing the gun to under the clown’s jaw, letting the metal touch his skin. But his violence didn’t seem to serve any reproach to Joker. He brought his fingers up to the warm itch that had blossomed there. They came away red, the clown smirked looking through his lashes at Bruce.

“If you were anyone else, I’d commend you for your dedication to that disguise; actually buying food and all,” Joker’s nasal voice creaked out of him as he continued to stare at Bruce. “But then you’re you, so ... It’s probably for the best though because I’m pretty much out of any refreshments I could offer...”

As the clown rattled on about how he hadn’t been to the store in a while, Bruce’s lips formed a thin line. Honestly, how had he been expecting this interaction to go? Of course the clown would recognize him. Any smart man, and whatever anyone had to say on the matter Bruce knew Joker was very smart, would have done their research before hitting the streets of Gotham. Bruce Wayne’s face was all over the society pages and big business, any time he funded a city initiative his picture was included again. There was really no escaping his image if one peaked into Gotham centric news. Joker probably knew every detail about his life that was public knowledge and even some that wasn’t.

“....though I could offer you some libations?” Joker asked coyly. Bruce wasn’t surprised it hadn’t taken him long to recover his charisma. 

Bruce just grimaced and did not deign to answer.

“So you gonna tell me why Batman has a gun?” Joker asked evenly, before his tongue darted out to touch the side of his mouth. Bruce had to remind himself that he didn’t need to panic. It shouldn’t matter _if_ Joker knew his true identity since Bruce was going to kill him tonight and end all this madness once and for all. That’s what he’d come here to do, wasn’t it?

“I’m not Batman,” Bruce said calmly. 

“Uh...yeah, you are,” Joker said, brows raised unimpressed. “You may not have the uh, eye shadow on now, but that indignant fury is all Bats.” He held up a hand between them, as a kind of blind, squinting. “And that chin is definitely you. Maybe you could have fooled someone else, but why you thought _I_ would miss the tell-tale signs ... I thought you knew me better than that.” 

“You’re mistaken,” Bruce reiterated.

“Okay,” Joker scoffed, a gruruff more than a real laugh. “then I’m supposed to believe that Gotham’s most eligible playboy suddenly decided that he wanted to forgo his nightly pleasures to what? ...take me out? Not likely, Bats.” 

Joker’s refusal to stop talking was grating on Bruce’s few remaining nerves in the way only the clown could. In response he pushed the gun further into Joker’s neck. Unfortunately, that didn’t shut the clown up. 

“Honestly, why are we even going around about this? This is a joke, right?” Joker said, slightly strained. “It’s bad, Bats. _I_ can’t even have a laugh at it. I would have thought hanging around with me as much as you do would have done a little something for your sense of humor but clearly it’s had the opposite effect. Pathetic really, I thought we were-”

“Enough!” Bruce growled. “I’m not him anymore.” 

Joker blinked at him confused. Bruce deflated slightly. He hadn’t explicitly reached that conclusion in his thoughts over the last two days, but right now it was clear. He would never be able to put the cowl back on. 

“I’m not him anymore,” Bruce repeated. 

“What do you mean you’re _not_ him anymore?” Joker asked incredulous. He looked like he was on the edge of hysterical laughter. “He’s the only real part of you!” 

“No,” Bruce’s denial felt weak, but he was steadfast; Batman could not exist anymore, even if that meant that Bruce was dead as well. “You don't understand I _cannot_ be him anymore.”

“What? You're going to resign yourself to that façade you call a real identity.”

Bruce didn’t say anything. 

“And so you came here to end this,” Joker concluded.

“Yes.”

“...Without the sui _t_ ,” Joker stared at his plain button down for a couple of seconds. No doubt he was thinking of how their final battle would have been, how they both would have gone down in flames of glory. Bruce was thinking the same, how things could have gone differently. Then Joker was nodding, mouth twisting around a different contortion of displeasure. “What’s changed all of the sudden?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“You hate guns.”

“They’re just a means to an end,” Bruce said with more than some defense in his tone. Joker’s green eyes turned icy. 

“Well, go on then. You seem to have a pretty good shot,” Joker said blithely. Bruce detected some disgust lining the edges of his words.

“That's it?” Bruce didn’t understand why he felt the curls of disappointment unfurling in his stomach. “You're not gonna try and convince me?”

“I suppose I’ll have to, won’t I?” Joker shrugged. “If you were really going to shoot me, you would have done it by now. Need a little persuasion to loosen those inhibiting morals.

“Since you asked...oh, please,” Joker broke into a high-pitched falsetto. “I won't hurt anyone anymore Mr. Batman. Bruce Wayne, I'm so sorry for what I've done; all the murders, the robberies. Blowing up all those buildings. Making the Gothamites _think_. Breaking the shiny district attorney. Killing your girlfrie-”

“Shut up!” Bruce ground out. “What are you trying to accomplish with this?”

“You said you wanted to kill me, I was merely facilitating the process.”

“I never said that,” Bruce said uncomfortably. Joker gave him a flat look.

“Why else would you bring a gun to a fist fight?” Joker growled. “Besides where’s the fun with the Bat out of business?”

“No more ‘fun’ and you’d just let me kill you?”

“Does it even matter? That’s your plan, isn’t it?” Joker said looking extremely put out. 

Bruce didn't say anything. Every word spoken to Joker was twisted around. Of course, he hadn't followed the man intending to kill him. The gun had never been for him. But once they were face to face all he could think about was smashing the clown’s head in. 

Joker’s eyes were boring into his. Still Bruce hesitated, adjusting his grip on the gun.

“I'm not just going to let you kill me,” Joker scoffed, ignoring Bruce’s moral quandary. “I’ll put up a fight. One last hurrah. I am curious though, why now? Like this? Did I finally become too much for you? Did I finally put the city in too much danger by going for a _walk_ through my old stomping grounds? I haven’t done anything in weeks. I just got out.”

“That’s the point. If I put you away now, you’ll just break out again and then what?”

“You say that but really, this isn’t even about me. But since you won’t talk to me about it...what’s the point in standing around here? Let's get this over with. Not everybody wants to stand around talking about the morality of what you do. Let’s go. Drop the gun. You need to fight me for _real_ ,” he growled out the last word, making it clear that Bruce had read the anger and disgust correctly. 

_Fight me for real_. That was what Bruce hadn’t intended to do that night and yet exactly what he wanted. 

Bruce acknowledged that he didn’t necessarily have a moral superiority over Joker now, but he still had personal retribution that he could call upon to justify the fight the clown wanted. After all, this was the man who killed Rachel. Who had destroyed her chances of a happy life with Dent. Who had forced his hand in turning public favor against the Batman. He watched Joker stretch his arms, limbering out his back, before Bruce flicked the safety of the gun back on and unloaded the clip. He carelessly dropped both to the ground and kicked them to the wall.

‘Collateral damage,’ Joker had called them during one of their fights when it had somehow come up that Batman was still upset over the results of their first battle (dance, he’d called it). They were old wounds, but if he pressed them they still hurt. And Bruce was pressing. He growled as the familiar burn of rage came back to him despite everything. 

He brought Joker upon Gotham. Bruce was under no illusions that it was him, and him alone, that had been the siren song calling the clown here. 

Joker cracked his neck, a sudden adrenaline rush making him practically vibrate with excess energy. Bruce dropped into a hand to hand combat stance, unconsciously slipping into Batman’s skin as Joker rushed him. The clown came at the left side of Bruce’s head. Batman ducked and punched at Joker’s solar plexus, connecting just as the clown pulled away, diminishing the blow’s overall effect. 

Still Joker let out a hoot of laughter and came at Batman again; he ducked to the left jabbing his knife holding hand towards Bruce’s unprotected lower abdomen. Batman brought his right arm out sweeping Joker’s knife in an upward glide before grabbing his other arm and twisting him around to better knock the knife from his grasp. It clattered across the floor. Joker wriggled in Batman’s grasp. Bruce held him tighter and the clown turned his head so he could see Bruce out of the corner of his eye and said, “You know for all your talk, you don’t really seem done with this.”

Batman growled, abruptly pushing the clown away from him. Joker took a staggering step for balance but Batman kicked out his legs from underneath him. Bruce circled about to kick Joker’s abdomen, but the clown rolled onto his back. Bruce changed his strategy, climbing over Joker to punch him instead. Joker tried to crawl away. Batman dropped all of his weight down on top of him hard and punched Joker again. The clown arched under him and his lip split, but Batman continued to bring his fist down again and again.

Ostensibly there was nothing different between this time Batman straddled Joker, his knuckles making a bloody mess of the clown’s face while Joker grinned through it all and any of the other times. No difference at all. And yet, as Bruce stared down at the other man, dark bruises appearing on his cheeks, one of his eyes swelling up, and blood covering his yellowing teeth, Bruce was struck. This was what Alfred looked like when he had taken his last breath. 

Bruce was beating a man to death in the same way the man who’d for years acted as the closest thing he had to a father-figure was murdered. Bruce, who had sought out and killed the men who taken Alfred from him. He’d taken their lives, painfully. He’d broken his rule and finally became the murderer Gotham thought he was. And here he was about to do it again? Is this how Alfred would want Bruce to honor him?

The haunting similarity staring Bruce in the face caused him to loose momentum. What right did Bruce have to deal out punishment for killers when he himself was one? What right did he have to beat up Joker for what he had done tonight, absolutely nothing to the Batman’s knowledge, when Bruce was a murderer just the same as him?

His punches halted entirely. All that could be heard in the din of the room was Bruce’s heavy breathing and the weird too viscous sound of all the blood in Joker’s mouth.

Joker blinked up at him. Tongue mobile, running along his front teeth, before darting out to taste his lips. He seemed to be evaluating, less guarded than surprised. It was the Joker’s inordinate interest in his face that made Bruce think his expression must be something akin to horror.

But then one of Joker’s hand slid up his cheek.

Even through his grief and horror at his own actions, Bruce felt the spark the other man’s touch had on him. Electric. For all their fighting over the years, they hadn’t really ever touched. At least not without three to four layers of Bruce’s armor and Joker’s three piece suits between them. Without skin on skin, it was easy to ignore how Joker made him _feel_. 

They’d only touched skin once before; when Joker had gotten the better of him in a fist fight over some hostages.  
He had climbed on top of Batman. Somewhere along the line he had lost his gloves, maybe he’d never had them on in the first place, and with his bare fingers he had wrenched the vigilante’s chin to look at him. Joker had gripped his face while espousing the virtues of his chaos paradigm. 

Bruce had wanted to be annoyed but really all he’d felt was the tendrils of lust forming in him as the clown’s nails left crescent shaped indents in his chin. He didn’t remember dwelling on it long at the time, in fact the realization of what he was feeling merely resulted in him roaring and throwing himself so hard into battle that Joker didn’t walk away. Batman had tossed him back into Arkham for what would be the fourth time and with him Bruce attempted to throw away the memory of that touch. 

He was less than successful if the number of times he’d brought himself off on the fantasy of the clown submitting to him had anything to say about it. The mere existence of those desires earned Bruce punishing marathon like training and as many extra patrols as he could get passed Alfred. He was eventually able to smother the thoughts with trepidation over what the clown would do the next time they faced each other, because Bruce was certain Joker had felt it too. He was equally certain that for all the tension that had been between them Joker would never act on it, because after that night Batman had never saw the man without gloves.

He had always thought it odd that the clown hadn’t done something about it during one of their subsequent altercations though. Everyone knew Joker got off on the violence he would instigate. It would be little surprise if he were actually aroused by it. And there had always been more than Gotham’s fair share of gossip about Batman’s preferences in the bedroom, as it were. Bruce had never given any of that speculation credence till that exact moment. He wondered how he’d become so screwed up that the Joker manhandling him while talking his usual nonsense ended up turning him on? 

Despite never having given Joker any reason to think he felt it too, Bruce wondered if this was Joker finally using that knowledge to his advantage. But when Joker took his fingers away they were wet. Bruce blinked, having not even been aware he was crying. The clown’s attention was now focused on the tears on his fingers, lips pursed. Bruce watched the man wanly curious to his reaction. Then Joker’s frown deepened fractionally and he sought out Bruce’s eyes, accusation written there plain as day. 

This was too much. Apparently, his behavior seemed to be as off-putting to Joker as it was to him.

Bruce pulled off and backed across the room. He knew he couldn’t turn his back on the Joker, even in the state he’d just left the man in. But neither could he let the clown see him cry. He didn’t want anyone to witness this break, least of all his arch enemy. Bruce wiped at his face roughly with the sleeve of his coat, but the tears were still coming.

Joker peeled himself off the floor and paced slowly towards him, eyes glued to Bruce as if trying not to spook him. 

“What’s going on, Bats?” The Joker asked low and too close. Bruce could smell the Gotham night and traces of gunpowder that he was now beginning to think always clung to the man. His knuckles tingled with feeling. Bruce knew that if he looked down, he’d see just as much of his own blood there as Joker’s. 

Bruce swallowed. The thought had never made him feel like he might be sick before. He shut his eyes, that was just another piece of proof that he couldn’t do this anymore. Batman couldn’t shy away from beating criminals and murderers just because their blood would be on his knuckles. 

“Bruce...” Joker said, the name falling out of his mouth strange and wrong. “What happened?”

“They...” he started, only having to begin again. “They murdered him.”

Confusion muddled Joker’s face, the conversation clearly taking a turn he had not expected. “Who?”

Bruce gut instinct to protect his butler’s identity kicked in and he pressed his lips together determined not to tell, only to seconds later remember there was no longer anyone to protect. He felt himself crumple, the grief that had been covered by his guilt and rage came rolling over him once more. It didn’t matter if he told him anymore. Bruce shuddered. Joker put a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey... who did they-” 

“Al-” Bruce broke off biting his lip with a shake of his head. He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t say his name. He could not say his name. But it didn’t seem to matter as a wave of realization rolled over Joker’s expression. He was suddenly too sober. Bruce had never seen him so serious without the promise of violence soon on its heels. 

“And...what did you do?” Joker asked, barely breathing. Of course, it was the right question to get to the bottom of why Bruce was acting so strangely; proof that they had been adversaries too long, for Joker to know exactly how to cut Bruce to the quick.

It was a simple question. What had he done? 

Bruce stared at his hands. When he had taken off his gloves the last time he was in the suit, the last time he’d ever be in the suit, he’d stared at the blood on his hands, which had seeped through his gloves and stained his fingers. He could still see the brownish red water running down the sink when he’d tried to wash it away.

What had he done? He had beaten them to death. 

He couldn’t tell that to Joker, of all people. Even if Bruce suspected the clown had killed a few that way himself, it would give Joker too much pleasure to see Batman brought down to his level. Bruce was severely regretting his decision to follow this man at all. 

“Hey, hey,” Joker said, leaning in close and running a couple fingers down the side of Bruce’s face. “You know I’m not gonna judge you, hurm?” Bruce couldn’t look at him. He didn’t understand why Joker was being like this. It was not helping him calm down. He choked back another sob. It struck him that he might really need some sleep, because now Joker was sounding cautiously sincere. Really Bruce was ridiculous. Only he would fantasize genuine concern from Joker. Still he couldn’t bring himself to meet the clown’s eyes and prove him wrong. 

Joker wasn’t having any of it, though. He gripped Bruce’s chin again trying to dragged the other man’s face up to make eye contact.

“Hey, look at me.... Bruce, what did you do?” Joker repeated, eyes boring into Bruce until he finally met Joker’s gaze. It was still oddly serious, tempered by caution. 

No, Joker didn’t look cautious. The expression on the clown's face was fear. It had taken Bruce a bit to recognize it with his own distress and the virtue of never having seen it on the man’s face before. 

It was unnerving. Joker didn’t get scared. He was always ready to tackle whatever Bruce threw at him. He had never been afraid of the Batman. There was something so wrong that he was now. Bruce couldn’t stand the irony, he needed to look away. But now that Joker held his eyes, Bruce couldn’t break the contact. It was like Joker had put a spell over him and now he would give the man what he wanted, regardless of his own reservations. 

Bruce took a breath. He wondered how long Joker would be able to maintain that facade of earnesty. Bruce wanted to push the man’s patience. They were both acting so outside of their normal patterns, Bruce yearned for a sense of familiar ground. But they were never going back, Bruce knew it. Now it was time for Joker to know as well. 

“I killed them,” Bruce exhaled. Joker blinked and something flickered across his features before Bruce could decipher it. He tilted his head to one side, as if considering the man in front of him anew. But Bruce couldn’t read whatever conclusion he reached. So he continued on driving to elicit a concrete reaction from Joker. “I found each of them and beat them to death, with my own hands. Every. Last. One.”

Bruce kept eye contact for as long as he could, but all he could see in Joker’s eyes was a weariness, an unease. Of what, Bruce didn’t want to speculate. He sat down hard on the wooden floor, slumping agains the wall. He knew he wouldn’t need a fighting stance anymore, and if he happened to be wrong; well at least he’d be out of this misery.

Joker crawled over to him and slid into the gap between Bruce’s parted legs, his make-up-less face looming less than a foot from his. They’d been close before during that standoff, but this was too close. Except Bruce didn’t have the energy to be annoyed; he honestly hadn’t slept since they’d murdered Alfred. The hunting, his own murders, all Joker’s banter, and now this confession left him exhausted. 

It was the first time he had admitted his crimes to anyone. And if Bruce was being honest, he held Joker’s opinion on a different caliber than any other Gothamite, even with his complete disregard for human life. He wasn’t stupid. Joker knew that Batman hadn’t killed anyone before. He knew that Harvey Dent’s crimes were his own and that Batman just took the fall. The only other person left alive in the city that knew that truth was Gordon and Bruce would never be able to admit this to him. 

Maybe it was how different he looked without his warpaint, but Bruce still couldn’t read the Joker’s expression. He could smell him again though, like gunpowder and fresh blood. Bruce could see it congealing in the cut under Joker’s left eye; a sick part of him wanted to touch it. 

Bruce pushed the thought aside. It didn’t matter. He really should try to get away from here before he had any more blood on his hands. Maybe he didn’t have to kill Joker. Maybe if the clown knew there was no more Batman he’d crawl back down the tunnel to the hell he’d originally come from in search of this twisted game they’d played for years. 

It seemed a vain hope as he watched Joker inch nearer till he was practically on Bruce’s lap, too close to Bruce’s face. Joker moved his hands up to the side of his neck. The former vigilante didn’t flinch, though he thought he should if not from having a murderous clown in his lap then from whatever that was between them which now crackled with disparate energy. 

Then Joker leaned in and kissed Bruce’s temple.

The brief touch of lips froze Bruce. Joker pulled a way to gauge his reaction, allowing Bruce to clearly see the man’s features slack and searching. The clown was still not laughing and Bruce didn’t know if Joker’s lack of mirth was more disturbing than his behavior. Regardless, as he hadn’t pushed him away, Joker seemed to have taken that as permission to continue and he started to lay kisses down the side of Bruce’s face. Joker wasn’t necessarily sloppy but they weren’t chaste. 

The clown had kissed his way down Bruce’s face before he came to pause at the corner of Bruce’s mouth. His lips barely rested there a second before Joker pulled back to meet Bruce’s eyes again.

Bruce would have sworn he could drown in the clown’s green eyes. Joker still hadn’t said anything but his every action spoke; saying: ‘Let me take your mind from this. Let me distract you. Let me make you feel like you again, please.’ 

He moved back in to kiss the other corner of Bruce’s mouth, just as lightly as before. Joker’s lips didn’t go far this time and he started to lean in to kiss in the same spot again, when Bruce moved. 

Bruce’s mind was empty of everything but how there wasn’t anything that he could do which would be worse than killing those men, when he turned his head slightly to kiss Joker fully on the lips. All he knew was that he wanted Joker, had wanted him for years, and here the man was offering Bruce what he hadn’t dare hope for. Joker was apparently surprised by this reaction and Bruce took the opportunity to deepen the kiss. He wound his hands behind Joker’s back, one fisting the clown’s hair and the other gripping his waist coat, casting it even more askew then it had been before. 

Joker shuddered, eagerly kissing him back. 

Joker’s mouth was amazing and his tongue was surprisingly talented, but Bruce needed to breathe. He also needed the answer to a question. Reluctantly, he pulled back. Joker tried to follow his lips back till he realized Bruce wasn’t going far, that he only needed a chance to breathe. The clown smiled a small genuine smile. It would be unnerving if Bruce could think of anything other than how beautiful the man was. Especially with the grotesque scars curling up his cheeks, Joker was beautiful and he was distracting Bruce from what he wanted to know. 

“Why now?” Bruce asked. His fingers finally made it under the vest, hoping to be as distracting to Joker as his face was being to him. Bruce felt the Joker’s lean muscles arching into him and considered it a success. The waistcoat was a plum one with dark eggplant pinstripes Bruce had seen earlier. He’d always admired how fashionable Joker was. His hands trailed down Joker’s abdomen, coming to a rest on his hips, anchoring him. 

“The opportunity never presented itself before,” Joker said, his fingers making their way down undoing Bruce’s shirt buttons. That was not true in the slightest. No doubt there had been other times when Joker could have kissed him, but Bruce let the excuse slide as he never given Joker any reason to think he would return his affections. “You were too busy beating me.”

“Or you were too busy enjoying it.”

“What can I say, I’m easy to please,” Joker grinned vicious. Bruce wondered if the ‘when it comes to you’ that seemed to implicitly hang off the other man’s words was really there. The clown punctuated his sentence by grinding his growing erection against Bruce’s.

Joker’s fingers reached their real goal; Bruce’s belt buckle and fly and he made quick work of undoing them. Then Joker spit on his greasepaint stained hand, before reaching inside Bruce’s boxers for his already half hard cock. Bruce groaned. 

Joker’s grip on him was alternately too tight or just barely enough. The spit was a weak lubrication, tinging the experience with pain. Bruce’s gratification mixed with torture was everything he’d imagined sex to be with Joker, just like everything between them was.

“Good?” Joker asked breathlessly, his green eyes seeking Bruce’s confirmation.

Bruce let out a grunt of ascent, his own hand maneuvered between them to get in Joker’s forrest green trousers. He made a cut-off gasping noise as Bruce began to work him over. When he caught some of the pre-come that had gather at the tip of Joker’s cock and smearing it down the shaft, Joker spasmed and clutched Bruce to him with his free arm. 

Joker had stopped the near painful teasing touch and was stroking him in earnest, his tongue licking up Bruce’s neck. He sucked in a breath, as he felt Joker’s mouth latch on to him. Bruce leaned into the sucking heat and the nip of the other man’s teeth with a groan. 

“You’re alive,” he breathed into Bruce’s neck. At first, he thought that Joker was talking to him, simply reminding Bruce of the fact.

Joker’s touch was bordering on harsh, gripping too tightly. Teeth dragging on Bruce’s jaw and lips. His nails leaving red trails in their wake. Bruce didn’t wonder what he’s trying to do; awaken the pleasure of the fight within him again. Bruce gave it back because that was not why he has to hang up the cape. He hadn’t forgotten at all. Bruce just couldn’t be charged with keeping the city safe when he failed to control himself on the most important count.

But as Joker breathed “You’re alive, you’re alive,” over and over into his neck and in between kisses, Bruce realized the clown was assuring himself of the fact. Assuring himself that the man he said completed him was still here. That he wasn’t alone yet. That Bruce was still with him.

“You’re alive.”

“For now,” Bruce said, breaking into Joker’s mantra. The other man seemed to come back to himself then, his grinding into Bruce’s hand stuttering before picking up pace. 

“For now, yeah,” Joker agreed, pupils blown darker than black and eating up the sight of Bruce. 

Words weren’t really a thing after that. Joker’s hands were softer then Bruce would have guessed. He aligned their cocks so the clown could grasp them both in hand and then Joker was working them over at an accelerating pace.

Aside from the hushed words in Bruce’s ear, Joker was quieter than he had thought; but then this was a solemn hand job not the rough sex Bruce had imagined. Regardless, it seemed to do it for Joker, because he came first; his body convulsing as he continued to stroke them both. Bruce was spellbound by the way Joker’s eyes rolled back in his head and his mouth went slack with pleasure. Joker’s pace on them had become slightly erratic, not helped in the slightest by Bruce fucking up into his fist.

But Joker came back down from his high before his a languid pace on Bruce’s cock could frustrate the man. Joker dropped his own cock and picked up the pace right where he left off, stroking Bruce hard and sure. Joker was inches from his face again, all of his attention focused on Bruce as he pulled him into a kiss. Bruce was so close. The tongue that was tangled with his own, that slipped out and trailed along his jaw, and the teeth that caught his earlobe were almost over stimulating. 

“Come for me, Bruce,” Joker breathed. “Come for me.” And Bruce did, shuddering through a blaze of white and exuberant satisfaction. 

Coming back to himself to quickly, Bruce had expected some fissures of guilt to rise up and fracture his post-coital tranquility, but Joker curled in on him, before Bruce could start questioning it in earnest. He let his eyes slip shut. 

There were moments when he would forget that he had killed and those were the scariest. He could feel the distance growing between who he was at that moment and who he was when he murdered those men. Bruce knew they were the same person, but as time passed he seemed more and more like someone else entirely.

Bruce didn’t know how long they sat against each other like that, but it was Joker who moved first. He pulled himself off Bruce, who watched him as he went through one of the mystery doors and flicked on the light. At the angle Bruce was seated, he could only see gritty tile and hear some water running, revealing it to be the bathroom. Joker reappeared minutes later with a damp wash cloth, which he handed to Bruce. 

He used it to rub at the half dried come. Unsure of what to do with the thing when he was reasonably clean, he passed it back over to Joker, who tossed it through the open door into the bathroom. When the clown turned back, Bruce had himself zipped up and was honestly at a loss of what to do or even say next.

“Since I’ve got you here and you’ve so kindly brought Lucky’s: you need to eat something,” Joker said, serious and watching him intently. Bruce hadn’t really been planning to eat again. “Come on, babe,” Joker held out his hands. “You’re wasting away and I’ll be damned if you do it on my watch.” 

Bruce for lack of anything better to do took them. Joker pulled him up. It was bizarre that Joker was telling he needed to take care of himself; when he thought of the man’s previous demands, eating something was surprisingly innocuous. Well, Bruce wasn’t complaining. He allowed Joker to wind an arm around his waist while leading him towards an unstable looking wooden table.

“You’ll have to excuse the mess. I wasn’t expecting company...” Joker said clearly amused with his own lack of foresight. Joker just scooped everything on the table up, grabbing the few odds and ends that eluded his sweeping grasp. He took the whole lot of it through to an empty box in the closet. 

“You eat at Lucky’s often?” Bruce asked, absently curious sitting awkwardly on one of the chairs. Joker shrugged, picking up the discarded bag. 

“They’re twenty-four hours, not half-bad, and just down the street. Sometimes they’re hard to pass up,” he said slunking down opposite of Bruce at the table. “But I didn’t stay here last time I was out, so I haven’t been in a while. I imagine you’ve never been?”

Bruce shook his head.

“So, what’d ya get us?” he asked digging into the bag.

“Pastrami.”

Joker made a considering face, as he pulled out the sandwiches and napkins. He set about unwrapping his sandwich and he tucked in, before nodding approvingly. 

“Oh, drinks!” Joker jumped up and crossed the small apartment in three steps. “What can I offer you?” He asked sticking his head in the fridge. “I’ve got water.... and ummm....I have peach schnapps but that’s better for dessert....”

“Water’s fine,” Bruce said. Joker pulled out two chilled bottles of water, with one final searching look to the inside of his fridge, he returns to the table.

“So what do you plan on doing now that Batman’s dead?” Bruce asked once he’s settled. 

“But you’re no _t_ ,” Joker said, giving Bruce a hard look. “And unless you’re _gonna_ be, that’s not quite the same is it? Besides, it’s not as if you would just let me walk away.”

Bruce didn’t say anything. Joker sighed. 

“If _you_ were dead, I already told you what would happen. Bit of a disappointing waste, if I do say so myself, but there’s really not much else at this point, otherwise.”

This direction of conversation was making him uncomfortable, even if he himself had been considering the same these last couple of days. Bruce covered his frown by taking another bite of his sandwich. Why did he care if Joker would kill himself? 

“Even assuming I’m not gonna be dead, since I’m no longer Batman, I won’t be able to provide that opposition you seek.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Joker countered. His expression turned sly. “I think we did pretty good just then.”

Joker was definitely referring to the sex they’d had and not their fist fight. Bruce felt some color rising on his cheeks. The clown laughed, a delighted sound different from the crazed cackled he’d heard so often. He felt slightly guilty for being immediately suspicious of a laugh, particularly as Bruce could not detect a note of malicious enjoyment in it. But it was the Joker’s own fault for conditioning him to be weary of anything he found joy in.

“What?” Bruce demanded.  


 “You’re just too cute when you blush like that!” Bruce blinked. Joker had just called him cute. They were eating sandwiches and drinking bottled water. Like normal people. They’d just had sex. Bruce suddenly felt lightheaded. He didn’t think he’d ever be able to show his face in the light of day again.

“I can’t be here,” Bruce said in exasperation. Not sure if he meant in the room with Joker or in the Gotham at all.

“Then where are we going, Brucie?” 

“If I leave Gotham,” Bruce rolled his eyes, attempting not to cringe at the bastardization of his name. “You’re just gonna follow me? Why do you think I’d want that?” 

“I’m not that bad,” Joker frowned, mirth gone as quickly as it came. “It’s not as if you have anyone else.”

Bruce glared and the other man returned the expression just as hard. So Joker really did understand Alfred’s place in his life. 

Joker relented, face shifting back to one of shrewd evaluation, “Tell me you’ve never thought about it.”

“About running away together?” Bruce asked in disbelief. 

“No, about taking our time.”

Bruce blinked. He wasn’t sure how Joker got there from the last bits of their conversation but sure, he’d thought about it. He entertained the thought of taking the clown a part one nerve at a time, till he was writhing underneath Bruce. But he never figured Joker would be into that. He assumed if they ever got together it would be hard and fast. Despite having gotten off to it a couple of times, Bruce had tried to put the fantasy far from his mind. He never would have thought Joker have pondered it too, though presumably in reverse.

“I thought so,” Joker said sounding pleased. “See, I know you better than you’d like to think.” 

“And if I said ‘yeah, that sounds good’?” Bruce said. “What are _you_ gonna do? Just stop killing people?”

Joker licked his lips and gave Bruce a side-eye, “Contrary to popular belief, I don’t actually _have_ to kill people. Besides, where’s the fun if Bats isn’t there to stand in my way?” 

“You’d just gonna stop for me?” Bruce rolled his eyes. 

“I can try.”

Bruce’s eyes jumped to meet Joker’s. He really hadn’t given a single thought to living beyond the next twenty-four hours. But he thought about it now, if he took up the clown’s offer. Would they go back to the manner and remake the place for themselves or stay here? Would they leave the city entirely? Bruce couldn’t say, but he could see it, them. For the first time since Alfred’s death, he could see a future beyond cleaning up his messes and tidying his final affairs. He looked at Joker, really looked at him. His face was open and Bruce couldn’t find any malevolence.

The clown didn’t want to die, but he would if Bruce did. Why Joker thought Bruce would be as entertaining as the Bat, he had no idea. This week had proved that he could kill remorseless criminals, who had no intention of rehabilitation, but here unprompted Joker had offered a reform and Bruce couldn’t kill a man who had just asked him for a second chance.

Was Joker no longer murdering much different from Bruce hanging up his cape for good? Both tasks seemed improbable, even if the Joker looked serious about taking up a rule. It didn’t matter. If the criminal broke his promise, if trying wasn’t enough, they’d be right back here with a bullet for each of them. But Bruce didn’t have anything to loose by trying. The man was right, Bruce didn’t have anyone else who knew him. 

The fact of the matter was he couldn’t get any lower than he’d been that week and Joker was offering him something. Quite literally the other man was holding out his hand. 

Bruce didn’t hesitate a second longer. He took Joker’s hand. 

Joker smiled and Bruce couldn’t help but return it.

**Author's Note:**

> Not entirely convinced I got these two 100%, but got to start somewhere! Title curtesy from “Starving in the Belly of the Whale” by Tom Waits, who I just really feel hits Joker’s notes a lot of the time. Like a crazed carnival man, talking about murder and the wretched state of the world, after sounding like being aged in a vat of bourbon, remind you of anyone we might know? 
> 
> Thoughts? Would love to hear them! I would particularly love to have your thoughts on the characterizations, as I’ve got at least one other fic for these two coming up!


End file.
